by Sharn Hutton
“So I followed her home. I knew it wouldn’t be far, not dragging around a piece of shit dog like that.” McGinty grinned at his own cleverness. Adam said nothing, unimpressed. He remembered Tigger, his own dog from childhood: he’d become slow and doddery during the last year before he died. Adam had helped him up and down the steps to their front door. Tigger had been a faithful friend.
“She got the door open and I just barrelled in after her and slammed it shut. She was a stubborn old bitch though. Even when I waved my Glock under her nose she still wouldn’t play ball. I had to shoot that piece of shit dog before she’d pay attention.”
Adam’s eyebrows twitched up and he raised his eyes to McGinty’s. He was getting excited by his own story, little globules of white spit gathering in the corners of his mouth. Adam’s jaw clenched and McGinty watched the muscles in his face tick.
“You a dog person, Foxy?” McGinty drawled, amused.
“No.” Adam’s eyes returned to his notes. A thug that was cruel to animals too—something that Adam couldn’t abide. Professionalism told him to keep his personal opinions to himself and he tried to control his breathing.
“Continue.”
“Had to drag her upstairs with my Glock in her ear. So damn stubborn. Everyone knows old ladies keep cash in the house and with rocks like that on her fingers I was betting there’d be plenty more tucked away in a jewel box up there.”
Why did old ladies insist on wearing their jewellery out to the shops? Adam’s grandmother was one for wearing big rings. Her favourite had a yellow topaz the size of a fat grape. As the years passed its fit had loosened and it twirled around her finger. He marvelled that she’d never lost it. If indeed, she still had it. He hadn’t seen her for a few years now. When his parents had decided to retire to northern France, Grandma had gone too. His whole family gone, just like that. Leaving Adam behind had become a bit of a theme. First his parents and Grandma, then Gracie, his childhood sweetheart. Eventually she’d found someone to pay her more attention than his determination to do well at the firm allowed.
“Wouldn’t tell me where to look though, goddamn bitch,” McGinty continued, “Had to turn the place upside down. I cracked at her skull with the butt of my gun when I got bored of looking.”
McGinty leaned in. From across the small table, Adam could feel his foul breath on his face. “She took a lot of persuading.” Tiny spots swam in Adam’s eyes and he let out the breath he’d been holding. A muscle flickered under his eye and McGinty smirked.
“Tying her to the bed was a kick. Started making a lot of noise then. Crying and squawking. Had to smack her to quiet her down.”
The stench of McGinty’s breath clawed at Adam’s throat and he felt the mental ‘click’. He’d come to this meeting to look for a way to set McGinty free, but why would anyone want to do that? This man was a monster. The unpalatable truth was that he was another monster, the latest in a long line. Nausea rose with the bile in Adam’s gut and he squirmed in his seat.
The clients he’d dealt with over the last few years at BSL had all been driven by their lust for money, all morals abandoned in their unyielding pursuit of it. Gun runners and drug dealers had brawled amongst themselves for the biggest slice of pie. Murders and assaults hadn’t been unusual, but their human suffering was just par for the course: they were complicit, expendable pawns in their own loathsome game. McGinty’s victim had no such involvement. She was an innocent pensioner in the wrong place at the wrong time and McGinty had got off on torturing her.
Adam knew then that he could not defend him, nor anyone else like him, ever again. He levelled his eyes to McGinty. “Did you get what you were looking for?”
“Fuck, man, I already had it by then. She was banging on about the police. No bitch telling tales on me. I gave it to her good, just to make sure.”
Adam swallowed back the acid in his mouth. “Mr McGinty, I’m afraid I must call our meeting to a close.” Adam stood. “My office will contact you in due course.” He stuffed the papers into his satchel.
“What? Where the hell are you going? I haven’t finished.”
“I am unable to represent you,” Adam croaked, heading for the door, but McGinty got to his feet too and blocked his path.
“You need to hear the rest of my story. About how I gave it to her…”
Adam stumbled over this glimmer of hope and paused to respond. “What? What did you give her?”
McGinty grinned, enjoying the effect he was having. “The gift of silence, man. I cut out her wagging tongue. No bitch telling tales on me.” He sliced through the air with an imaginary knife.
The uppercut to McGinty’s jaw sent him sprawling to the floor. It was hard to say who was the most surprised.
“You wanted to know, man!” McGinty spat onto the lino with a laugh.
Adam’s blood raged around his body and buzzed in his ears. His fist was still clenched and ready when the two prison guards burst in. One pulled Adam aside, the other thrust McGinty back into his chair.
“Interview terminated,” Adam’s voice quavered, shaking with adrenaline. He smoothed the guards away and darted for the door. He fled the building and got out through security in record time.
As he puked in the car park the revelation washed through him. All this time he’d ignored his clients’ behaviour. They’d belonged in another world, detached from his own. Gradually time had changed that, of course it had. Their realms had meshed when Adam became the magician who set them free. More and more his life revolved around The Evil and The Lawless, his own success: funded by their crimes.
It had taken McGinty to bring it home, to make Adam see how they terrorised decent people in his world too; to see how he’d kept them on the streets; to see how he was partially to blame.
Led by his own greed, he’d worked for the scourge of society for a fat bank balance. His chest constricted with the shame. Now that he’d seen it there could be no going back. The decision was made: it was over.
In the gym, Adam picked up the pace on the treadmill. He ran from his misplaced loyalty and ran from his past. Striding out, his muscles pumped and his head rang. The adrenaline fuelled his determination to be a better man, to make a difference. Somehow. He’d find a way to defend the weak—to hell with the scumbags and their money. A sob escaped from his throat that broke the spell. He stabbed the treadmill to a halt and staggered down from it, gasping for air and swiping away tears.
A belt of shame squeezed taut around his chest and Adam tried to rub away the pain. A slug of water eased the tightness of his throat, but a guilty conscience needed something more. Alcohol would take away the sting. He’d blot out the memories just like he had that terrible day and every day since.
TWELVE
JERRY BOWED HIS HEAD INTO THE WIND and picked up the pace. Crisp autumn leaves skittered across Soho Square and rattled over the pavement at his feet. Must not be late, must not be late. Jerry rammed his one free hand into the Crombie pocket and hunched his shoulders against the cold. His portfolio cradled the visuals for that morning’s vital meeting.
He rolled the opening lines of his presentation around his mind. Brian Cripps could be a miserable bastard, if he could start the ball rolling with a joke that might lighten the atmosphere. Spink was meeting him there. He’d schmooze off after for lunch with the client, while Jerry got on with some actual work.
He hung a left into Carlisle Street, wind tugging at his coat.
Although nothing official had been said back at the office, the cloud of redundancy loomed overhead. Two people from Accounts had already gone. The company was slimming down for the economic squeeze. Dial Diagnostics was a major client. If they lost them it would be bad news all round. Just to up the ante a little more, the team at Dial were twitchy right now: a high profile merger had put their stock price on the fritz and they were keen to soothe the shareholders.
Spink liked to show his face to make the client feel loved, but it was actually Jerry who handled the account and woul
d be making the pitch today. The directive they’d worked to had come straight from Dial’s board, so Cripps would already be unhappy about being side-lined.
Jerry gnawed at a fingernail and scaled the grey stone steps to the main entrance. The heavy glass door swished aside and Jerry beheld the line of people in reception with dismay.
The receptionist was using her best telephone voice to direct each visitor with regal aplomb and Jerry suspected the effort weighed greatly on her. Corkscrew curls of Afro-Caribbean hair jiggled around a peachy plump face. She was about thirty-five and eight months pregnant if she was a day.
“Take the lift to the second floor, Miss Masters will meet you in the lobby,” she simpered, then answered a silently ringing phone and looked out into empty air. “Dial Diagnostics. How may I assist? One moment. Yes?” The next person in line advised her of their business.
Jerry bit at his lip and checked his watch: five to. He was cutting it pretty fine. He shuffled up a place, staring at the receptionist, willing her to see him and pluck him out early. She stayed focused only on the person in front of her, but wiggled in her seat. Two more visitors sent on their way and she was jiggling about quite a lot now, corkscrew curls bouncing at her ears.
The coat’s collar prickled at Jerry’s neck and he sweltered under its woolly weight. He pulled at his scarf and swallowed hard, throat parched. Another visitor stepped away from the desk and took a seat on the leather banquette by the door. Along they shuffled. Jerry flapped his arms and rubbed at his hair and after an eternity, reached the desk.
“Jerry Adler to see Brian Cripps.” The receptionist looked relieved to have reached the final visitor in her queue. Checking the desk diary, she directed him to the elevator and prepared to stand. The big glass front door swished open and a motorbike courier barrelled in.
“Oh hell,” she breathed.
Jerry looked back at her and she pleaded into his eyes, “If I don’t get to the toilet soon.” She went rigid and made an ‘o’ with her mouth, eyebrows raised. She looked as if it might already be too late. “Any chance you could cover for me, just for a minute?”
“Er.” Jerry had to get to his meeting. She jiggled desperately on the spot. What could he do? “Just for a minute. Be fast.” Jerry bit at his lip, watching her speed-waddle away. She punched a code into the keypad protected door and disappeared. Jerry stood stock still. Had that just happened? He checked his watch. Nine o’clock dead. Shit.
The courier cleared his throat and held out a slip of paper. “You covering then, mate?”
Jerry leant his portfolio against the wall and took faltering steps toward him. He signed the slip and took the packet. The courier left and Jerry drifted behind the desk looking for somewhere to put it.
One didn’t often get to see behind the tall desk counters in swanky receptions like this. A surprising number of things hid beneath the smoked glass counter top at a lower desk level: a silver-framed photo of the waddling receptionist as a bride with her groom; a fluorescent pink fluffy gnome; a miniscule spider plant; a cold cup of tea in a huge mug that said ‘Tea for Two’ on the side; a keyboard and two flat screen monitors. One was a standard PC, the other appeared to be the switchboard. ‘Incoming call’, ‘Line 5’ and ‘Conference Room 2’ all flashed in red boxes. Jerry put on the headset to see if he could hear anything. Yep, definitely ringing. Wouldn’t be answering that.
The glass door swished and another suit swept up to the counter.
“Marcus Barnes,” the suit barked.
Jerry looked blank.
“Marcus Barnes,” he growled again.
“Oh no, hey, there’s been some confusion…” Jerry smiled, trying to explain.
“I’m late. Which meeting room am I in?” growled the suit, eyebrows knitting together.
“That’s the thing, you see, I don’t know.”
The suit was turning puce.
“Do I know you?” he seethed.
“No. No. Just cover, temporary cover.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. Beads of sweat rolled down Jerry’s back and his scalp prickled. The internal door clicked open and the flustered receptionist waddled through at speed, recognition and fear etched onto her face.
“Mr Barnes. Good morning,” she cooed.
“Who’s this idiot?” Marcus Barnes demanded.
“No-one. Nobody. Conference Room 2, sir.” She pushed Jerry out of her seat and scowled at him.
Barnes stomped into the lift. As the doors slid shut Jerry gathered up his portfolio.
“You’re welcome,” he muttered.
The receptionist huffed and put on her headset.
In the confusion Jerry’s mind had gone blank. “Where am I going again?” he asked.
The receptionist sighed and shook her head. “Conference Room 2,” she said.
THIRTEEN
JERRY SQUATTED IN THE CENTRE OF THE LOW WHITE LEATHER SOFA with his knees approaching his ears. For the second time that day he was trying not to panic and busied himself twiddling thumbs and sucking at teeth. Spink lounged nonchalantly in the matching armchair to his right, apparently untroubled. Together they waited for John Locksley to return. Jerry examined the room’s décor with great feigned interest to avoid any troubling eye contact.
He noted that Locksley’s office was clean, bright and about four times the size of his own dreary hole. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a leaf-strewn stretch of lawn, allowing in the last of the day’s autumn sunshine. Heavy framed photos lined up on the bank of cupboards behind his desk: an old print of a teenage boy embracing a trophy; Locksley and his wife smiling into the camera while the sun set on a tropical beach; a black Labrador content by an open fire.
“Now you’ve fucking done it,” Spink growled, “I’m not taking the shit for this; you’re on your own.”
Jerry sighed and rubbed at his forehead.
John Locksley was the CEO of Locksley PR. He’d kept his business afloat this past quarter century by taking decisive action and speaking his mind. Jerry knew that today would be no exception and gnawed at a fingernail in response to his rising nerves.
Locksley appeared in the doorway looking serious, and strode in. At a sturdy six feet, he was in good shape, considering his sixty years, with a thick head of steel grey hair that swept back from his brow. He made for one of the black leather chairs on the visitor’s side of his desk, spun it to face Jerry and Spink and sat down, palms on thighs.
“Gentlemen, we are not having a day to be proud of.”
Jerry winced. Spink leaned back, nodding sagely.
“I just came off the phone with Marcus Barnes and he’s pissed off. He thinks that Locksley PR is not taking their account seriously enough. He thinks that I’m sending out amateurs to work on the most important deal of his life. I’m not doing that, am I?” He leaned forward, looking in turn at Spink and then Jerry.
Jerry shook his head in silent denial, but Spink didn’t waste any time laying blame.
“I don’t know what Adler was thinking, turning up late and being obnoxious to Barnes. If I’d known about the theme on the stakeholder communications I’d have vetoed them before the meeting.”
“I was tailoring for Cripps.” Jerry blurted, “I know he likes sailing. I thought a few nautical terms might get him going.” Thanks a lot, Spink.
“Up the creek without a paddle?” sniped Spink, eyebrows raised, “Sinking without trace?”
“A little humour to lighten the tone.”
“You’re dead in the water,” Spink rumbled on.
Locksley raised his hand to silence them. “Jerry, I can see where you were aiming, but it just didn’t come off. They’re too highly strung right now. Spink, what was your input?”
Bugger all, thought Jerry.
“I’m all over Dial, sir. I let Adler carry the ball this time and he dropped it.”
What? Spink was such a snake. He had no idea what the pitch was about, had done bugger all work and just stepped in at the last mome
nt to lap up the credit. Not that there was an awful lot of that.
Locksley looked back and forth between them, clearly registering the animosity. “We’re facing a difficult economic time. I’m handing out redundancies and you two are bitching over one of our biggest accounts. You’re screwing it up and not for the first time.” He looked over to the window and breathed in resolve. “The business will suffer if things don’t change. One of you will have to go.”
The ball of nerves in Jerry’s gut vaporised to leave a vacuum. He threw a panicked sidelong glance to Spink, whose smug expression had disappeared, at least.
“Jerry, I can see you’ve got heart and potential, but you’ve got to work on your empathy and do it fast. This is a people business, Jerry. You’ve got to get a hold of it.” He shook an outstretched fist in enthusiastic demonstration.
“And you, Donald, well I’m not sure what’s going on with you. You’re distracted. I don’t feel like you’re on the ball anymore.” He waved a derisory hand in an arc that fell back to his thigh before looking once more from man to man.
“You’ve both got your strengths, don’t get me wrong. I like you both, really I do, but you’re fighting over the same turf and I can’t see it working out long term.” Locksley shrugged out an apology.
“I’ll give you both a fair crack. Donald, you’ll have to go back to the floor so you two can fight it out on a level playing field. Three months should do it. Three months and I will be looking at your clients.” He wagged a concluding finger, “Whoever brings me the best portfolio will take Sales Director and I’m sorry, but the other is out.”
